Tequila
by Chirugal
Summary: Set two months after 'Hiatus'. "There's a girl at the cantina lookin' for you." Spoilers for Hiatus through to Escaped. Gibbs/Abby, finally complete!
1. Stereotypes

**Title**: Tequila  
**Rating**: PG-13 for now, but there'll probably be some later scenes that will lower the tone, I mean, raise the rating.  
**Spoilers**: _Hiatus_  
**Summary**: "There's a girl at the cantina lookin' for you."

**Author's Note**: Set two months after the events of _Hiatus_, meaning midway between Gibbs quitting and what happens in _Shalom_. Please let me know what you think - good or bad!

* * *

I'm just about to pop open my second beer when Mike arrives back at the house, dragging assorted odds and ends from the hardware store behind him. I grab another can from the refrigerator and hand it to him.

"Thanks, Probie." He takes a long drink, but his eyes never leave me – it's obvious he has something to say, but alcohol takes precedence. It usually does, with Mike.

He finally speaks. "There's a girl at the cantina lookin' for you. Pretty young thing, too. She's quite the catch."

For a second, I can't process the thought – a girl? Looking for me, here? Anticipation and apprehension mingling in my mind, I try to work it out. "Hair colour."

Mike smirks at me knowingly. "They can't all be redheads, Probie. I know how you love 'em, but this broad's got dark hair."

Abby. My gut's almost never wrong, and somehow I know it's her. The way we parted was just too up in the air for her to accept. In the back of my mind, I knew that eventually she'd track me down. "Is she Goth?"

Shaking his head, Mike chuckles. "Damn, your tastes have really changed in the last fifteen years. Nah, she was dressed normal, blue jeans, red shirt."

Ziva, then. Ignoring the disappointment that rises as I'm proved wrong, I remember her parting words to me. _I'll collect, Jethro._ I had no doubt about it – I just didn't expect it to be this soon.

Grabbing the keys to Mike's clapped-out pickup truck from the table, I hand him my beer and head for the door. "I'll be back in a while."

His hoarse laughter follows me outside. "I'll make myself scarce, then. I wouldn't worry about getting her to come back here – she was knocking 'em back like a pro. I'll be surprised if she can still talk by the time you get to her."

Ziva, drunk? It seems uncharacteristic. I wonder what's happened to get her into that state; things must be real bad back in DC.

As I drive the miles to Carlos' Cantina, my brain flicks through every possible scenario, not settling on any of them. Once I get over the initial shock of my past turning up to haunt me, it's replaced by frustration and anger. The last thing I want is to be reminded of the ineffectual government who could have acted to save innocent lives. Or the people who died because I was in a coma for too damn long. Or of the people I left behind: colleagues, friends.

Of the graves of my first wife and only child, buried in the city I chose to escape from.

As I draw closer to civilisation, through the growing dusk, I smack a hand down on the wheel of the pickup, sending a jolt of pain through it. The sensation grounds me, bringing my awareness back to the present, where it belongs.

The cantina is a dive, but Mike refuses to drink at any other place in town, so I've gotten used to it. I pause just inside the door and survey the room. A few regulars are sequestered away in booths, but otherwise the bar is pretty much empty.

"More tequila."

Just as I'm about to walk over to the only woman in the place, I recognise the throaty voice of the one person I can't forget, no matter how much I drink. She slouches on a stool at one end of the bar, hair loose and obscuring her face, her head practically in her hands. As Mike described, she's dressed casually in a red shirt and blue jeans, but despite the change of appearance it's unmistakably Abby. The bartender pushes the glass back towards her, and she looks up at him. I get a fresh shock: her face, creased into a frown, is devoid of makeup.

"Doesn't this bother you?" she asks the bartender accusingly.

I don't recognise him; he must have been hired since my last visit. He looks around, confused. "Doesn't what bother me?"

She waves her hand at the general surroundings. "This music. It's the most… stereotypical… Mexican music you can get. When people think of Mexico, they think of sombreros and cantinas full of people drinking tequila and listening to crap like this. Is this really the way you want to market your country to the rest of the world?"

She's slurring slightly, but her hand is steady as she picks up the glass and downs the tequila. The bartender stares at her, unsure what to say. I stifle a smile along with the urge to interrupt her tirade – she may look different, but she's still the Abby I know and love.

"Ah, well," Abby sighs. "Whatever works. Speaking of stereotypes, aren't you supposed to light my cigarette and ask me how my day was?"

The guy begins to edge further down the bar. "Do you even have a cigarette?"

"No." She nudges her glass forward once again, and he takes the hint, filling it to the brim.

"Then… how can I light it?"

Abby shrugs, knocking back the tequila without hesitation. "I dunno. But you could at least ask me how my day's been."

The bartender glances around for other customers, but there are no takers. Reluctantly, he asks, "So, how was your day?"

"Terrible," Abby grumbles. "I've been here two days searching for my boss. I know he's around here somewhere, but so far, no luck."

Guess my gut was right after all.

"You can't wait until he gets back to work?"

Abby is silent for a moment. When she finally answers, her voice is flat. "He took early retirement. Wouldn't even let me talk him out of leaving. I never got to tell him that I…" She swallows, shakes her head, changes tack before I can mentally finish that sentence. "I want to find him, make sure he's okay. I just need to…" Words fail her again. "Oh, hell. Fill her up."

As the bemused bartender reaches for the glass, I break my paralysis and cross the room, laying a hand on her shoulder. Our eyes meet, and for a second she doesn't seem to realise who I am. Then recognition flickers across her features and she gasps, launching herself off the bar stool into my arms. I catch her, rocking backward with the force of the hug, and remember the last time I held her this way. By the steps to MTAC, dressed in hospital scrubs, surrounded by friends.

When she finally prises herself out of the embrace, her eyes are wide and tearful. "Is it really you?"

"It's me," I reply. The first words I've said to her in over two months, and they're woefully mundane. "What's with the normal clothes, Abbs?"

"Have you ever been on a road trip by yourself, dressed in the kinda stuff I wear?" She smiles forlornly. "Stupid question. Of course you haven't. Or if you have, you really gotta tell me about it later. But trust me, it gets you a _lot_ of unwanted attention. So I came incognito." She sways a little, grabbing my arm for support. "I can't believe I found you. I… think I need another drink."

Before the bartender can pour her another tequila, I stop him with a sharp shake of my head, irrationally pissed off at him for letting Abby get to this state. He backs off as I tell her, "You've had enough. Come on, I'm taking you home. Where are you staying?"

As I coax her into taking a couple of steps toward the door, she rolls her eyes. "Sleeping in the rental car. This is the back of nowhere and the motels look really, really trashy. Do you know how many different DNA specimens I can pull off one motel bed? A _lot_. Though, wait, I guess rental cars are disgusting too, but usually they're not covered in seminal fluid–"

I cut her off mid-tirade. "Then you're coming back with me."

She shakes her head as we step out into the evening air. "Won't Franks be angry? I don't wanna be any trouble…" She stumbles and braces herself against my chest, and for one long second I'm convinced that she can feel my heart pounding through my shirt. She looks up at me, as if to check I'm still there, and I resist the crazy impulse to close the distance between us and kiss her.

"Mike's staying at some woman's place tonight. Don't worry about it." My words break the spell, and we begin to walk again. "How'd you find me?"

"Last week, you switched your cell on. I dunno why you did, but you did, and I tracked the GPS to this general area, but then I lost you. I couldn't take the chance that it'd be another two months before you checked it again, so I drove down here. The hearse got a flat in Richmond, which totally sucks, because there's so much room to sleep in a hearse that you just don't get from a regular car. But I had no choice, so I took a rental the rest of the way."

I can't help but laugh at her determination. "That's my girl," I mutter under my breath.

* * *

**I do plan to continue this. I just have to get around to it! Thanks to everybody who's been reviewing my various one-shots lately - the feedback is very much appreciated. :)**


	2. DIY Fetish

**Author's Note**: It took me a while, but here's a little more of this. :) Thanks for all your comments! This is quite short cause I  
didn't have time to cram another scene in before I slept. But hey! At least it's something...

* * *

"Morning."

"Mmmmff," Abby mumbles. "Don't talk so loud!"

_You okay?_ I sign to her silently, and she smiles at my literal take on her words.

"Too much tequila. Dehydrated. Headache." She takes the glass of water I offer and downs the entire contents without pausing for breath. Then she stumbles across the kitchen to refill the glass, the oversized shirt she wore to bed barely covering the tops of her thighs as she yawns and stretches an arm over her head.

Not that I'm noticing.

"How much did I drink?" she asks, coming to sit beside me on the couch. Her voice is more gravelly than usual – she hasn't fully woken up yet.

"Two tequilas just in the five minutes I was watching," I tell her, and she groans, dropping her head into her hands. "And god knows how long you'd been sitting there."

Her brow furrows as she tries to remember. "Did I scare the bartender?"

Amused, I nod. "A little."

She sips her water as I get up and set some more coffee on to filter. I feel her eyes follow my movements around the kitchen, and glance over to see her gnawing on her lower lip. "What's wrong, Abbs?"

"Most of last night is a really big blur. Did I say or do anything… weird?"

_I never got to tell him that I…_ "No," I reassure her. No use in reading more into a comment than was actually meant. "I brought you back here and you spent a while wandering around the room breaking Mike's tools and telling me how things are back home."

Her eyes widen, and I realise my choice of words. _Back home._ For a second I think she'll call me on it, but her common sense wins out. She'll need to be a lot more coherent before she can even think about starting _that_ argument. "I broke stuff?"

"Abbs, you were drunk. Of course you broke stuff."

She finishes the water and sets down the glass, taking extra care. "Sorry…"

"I don't care," I tell her, shrugging. "They're not my tools."

Abby grins at that, a flicker of her usual bouncy enthusiasm struggling through her hangover. "So what're your plans for today?" she asks.

"Beer. Sun. Repairing the roof." I know I should try to be a good host, to offer to take her sightseeing or something. But if I let her get too comfortable, she might decide to stay. And we both know that would be a bad idea.

Most women would sulk and make pointed comments. Abbs just shrugs and smiles. "Nothin' changes with you, huh, Gibbs?"

She's not wrong. "You should get dressed before Mike gets back. Trust me."

She takes the hint, looking down at her nightwear with a resigned smile. "One of those, huh?"

The thought of Mike drooling all over Abby's half-naked thighs is enough to make me wince. "Oh, yeah."

"Noted. I'm gonna take a shower," she replies, getting to her feet.

"And there'll be coffee waiting for you when you're finished," I tell her retreating back, as she wanders in the direction of the bathroom.

I spent the night on the couch, despite Abby's protests that she didn't mind sleeping there. She took my bed, and I didn't think Mike would appreciate me sleeping in his. I begin to stow away the spare bedding, moving mechanically through household tasks.

Shortly after, Mike's rickety plumbing groans into life, and I step outside to distract myself from thoughts of what's going on in the bathroom. The sun is blazing, and I shade my eyes against its glare, turning my attention to the roof, beginning to work out the best approach to patching it up.

The distraction works. My mind focused on the task at hand, I begin to gather up the tools I'll need, but my claw hammer is nowhere to be found. After turning the living area upside down, I head toward the bedrooms to continue my search.

The door to the bathroom is open, and Abby is standing in front of the mirror, touching up a coat of purplish lipstick. "You lose something?"

"Hammer."

She casts an eye around the bathroom before shrugging. "Can't see one. Unless you keep a spare hidden in the cistern like a scary DIY addict?"

She's dressed in her characteristic alternative style: everything from the huge boots to the fishnets; from the short, metal-studded skirt to the artfully shredded shirt; from the spiked leather collar to the skulls on the ties holding her pigtails in place.

I watch her zip up her makeup bag, and fully realise for the first time since I left how much I've missed her.

She looks up, catching sight of my appreciative half-smile, and flicks a pigtail over her shoulder. "Feels good to be me again."

"Oh, you're always you, Abbs."

She crosses the hall to my bedroom, and I follow, still searching for the hammer. She begins to make up the bed, pausing as she reaches for a pillow. "Hammer?" she says, holding out the missing tool with a slightly bemused upturn of her lips.

I take it from her. "Where'd you find it?"

"Under one of your pillows. I slept next to it all night and didn't notice. It's kinda cute in a deranged way, Gibbs… Most people's security blankets are, y'know. Actual blankets." Her eyes sparkling, she points an accusatory finger at me. "_You _have a DIY fetish."

Rolling my eyes, I head back toward the front of the house. "Abbs, haven't we already had the fetish conversation?"

"Well, yeah," she accedes, hurrying after me, "but that was like two and a half years ago. I think we're due another. And you and the boats and the fixing and the hammering? You can't deny there's a sexual element to it."

Her words are uncomfortably accurate, and the way I feel about her right now tells me it's not a good idea to continue the conversation. "Abby…" I growl, making sure she hears the warning in my tone. _Back off, before I back you against the wall and show you how right you are…_

Abby sighs. "Okay, okay. Head outside. I'll get us that coffee."

I'd completely forgotten about it in the effort to distract myself. "Sounds good."


	3. Introductions

**Author's Note**: Shame on me... what with _Inked_ and all, I've let this fall by the wayside a bit. So here's a teeny tiny update to see if I can make myself get back into the Mexican mood again...

I'm working off the assumption that Abby never met Mike Franks during the events of _Hiatus_... And Camila is the woman who brings Mike's groceries. I don't think her name's ever mentioned on-screen, but according to IMDB that's what she's called, so hey. Camila it is. :)

* * *

"Don't think you're gonna find anything you like on that old thing."

Abby fiddles with the dial on the rickety old radio, tuning past static to bluegrass, back to static, then Spanish sports commentary, more static, some sort of flamenco music… "God, Gibbs, how do you cope?"

She gazes up to my position on the roof, her lacy black parasol mostly shading her from the fierce late-morning sun. Anyone else on vacation in Mexico would have seized the opportunity to sunbathe. Not Abbs. She'd frowned up at the sky and begun to dig through her belongings, locating the parasol and popping it open as she stepped out into the heat. Now she's sitting in a deckchair, legs tucked beneath her, alternately watching me work and staring out at the ocean.

It hasn't taken long for her to grow bored, though.

"What you need is some _real_ music," she says decisively, setting the radio aside and getting up. "And don't even tell me you don't, cause I'm not gonna listen."

Before I can stop her, she's run into the house, and a couple of minutes later she re-emerges, carrying some sort of electronic gadget connected to a couple of mini-speakers. "I feel bad for you, Gibbs," she continues, hitting a few buttons. "Two months without Android Lust? You must be going crazy!"

I let her words pass by with a small smile, slotting the claws of the hammer between two rotting boards and beginning to prise them up.

A haunting melody washes out over the sands, punctuated by a heavy beat. It's a song I immediately recognise, though I couldn't name it and only even know the band's name because Abby mentions it on a regular basis. This song has been blasting from her lab at least four times a week for the past three years. I know every note, every lyric.

Abby begins to tap a foot in unison with the beat, cranking up the volume and settling back into the deckchair with a forensics journal. And I continue to work, ignoring the sharp pang of homesickness that needles me.

The music continues, song after song. Abby reads. I throw myself back into repairing the roof. Time passes. Every now and then, I glance down at her, but her face is obscured by the parasol. She occasionally turns a page, but whether that's to give me the illusion that she's concentrating, I can't say.

After a while, I hear the roaring of an engine in the distance, and glance up to see Camila's truck approaching. Guess I know where Mike spent the night. How he managed to convince her to sleep with him after all this time, I don't wanna know.

As the vehicle pulls to a stop, Abby switches off her music and sets down her book, watching the proceedings with interest.

"Probie!" Mike calls, getting out of the passenger's seat. He barely even looks at me, his eyes fixed on Abby. "I tell you there's a girl at the cantina lookin' for you, and you go and pick up a different broad altogether?"

"Same girl, Mike," I point out, setting down the hammer and beginning to descend the ladder to ground level.

Abby tilts back her parasol, allowing him to get a good look at her face, and for a second he stands there, analysing her. "Huh. How about that." It's a statement, not a question, and she responds by getting out of the deckchair, offering a hand for him to shake.

"I'm Abby. Nice to meet you, Mr Franks."

He takes her hand, raising it to his lips as Camila rolls her eyes, slamming shut the driver's door and making her way over to me. "I'd watch out, _Señor_ Gibbs. You know how he can get…"

As I laugh at the idea that Mike could ever talk Abby into bed with him, she heads past me and into the house, groceries in hand.

"You're the… forensics girl, right?"

Abby shoots a surprised look my way as I head down to join them on the sound. "Yeah. How…?"

Mike lights a cigar, watching her like a hawk. "Probie's been down here two months, and he's only found three things to do. Talk while drinkin', talk while hammerin' and talk while sailin'. Think we've talked about every damn thing that's happened since I retired by now."

The words don't register with her; she's too busy biting back laughter as she grins up at me. "_Probie_?"

"Don't make me headslap you," I warn her, and she giggles, picking up her book from the sand and following Camila into the house.


	4. Food and Conversation

**Author's Note**: Yep, I'm definitely in a post-_Hiatus_ mindset at the moment! So here's another chapter. Thank you so much for reading and giving feedback, guys. I feel loved.

* * *

"I could get used to this." Abby gazes out at the ocean through the gathering dusk, her face softly illuminated by the light from the porch lamps.

"They don't have Caf-Pow! this far south, Abbs," I point out, and she smiles, shrugging and holding up her mug of coffee.

"I know. But there's still coffee." An entrepreneurial glint in her eye, she sits forward. "You know, I bet there'd be a great market for Caf-Pow! down here. I analysed it with my mass spec one day, when I was bored in my lab – I know exactly what's in it. I could make it in bathtubs and start a little business…"

She's half-serious, and I shake my head at her. "You're not staying, Abbs." Beside me, Mike whistles into his beer. He doesn't speak, but I can tell he will as soon as Abby makes her next foray into the house.

She rests her elbows on her knees and drops her head into her hands, staring out at the remnants of the sunset. "I know." Her voice is low and disheartened, and I feel a stab of guilt.

"Abby, think I could get a hand with this, _chica_?" Camila calls from the kitchen, and she jumps up immediately and heads on in.

"Harsh, Probie."

I scowl at Mike, draining the last drops of beer from my bottle. "Have to be, with Abby. She has a hell of an imagination. Sometimes you have to stop her before she gets carried away."

Mike raises an eyebrow. "So she drives all the way down here to see you, and you spend all day workin' on the damn roof and then yell at her?"

"What would you do, Mike? Let her stay and screw over her career on a whim?"

He gives a lecherous chuckle. "Well, I sure as hell wouldn't have slept on the couch last night…"

I scowl at him. Since he retired, I'd forgotten how much of a womaniser Mike could be, and though I've had plenty of time to get used to it again, every now and then it still exasperates me. "That's the difference between you and me, Mike. I don't take advantage of women who've drunk too much to know what they're doing."

Mike snorts. "She'd fall into bed with you stone cold sober, Probie, and you know it."

The comment blindsides me. "What?"

He blinks, as if trying to assess whether or not I'm joking. "No wonder you've had so many damn divorces. You were a good agent, but when it comes to women, you're clueless."

Before his words can register, Abby and Camila re-emerge from the house, carrying plates laden with food. Abbs hands one to me with a smile, giving no indication that she even remembers the way I snapped at her a minute ago. Her fingertips brush my palm as she places a knife and fork in my hand, but the touch is fleeting and accidental, however much my skin overreacts.

"Camila cooked; I carried. You guys are doing the dishes," she tells Mike and I, settling herself cross-legged in her chair and sliding the plate onto her lap.

I shrug. "Sounds fair."

Predictably, Mike grunts. "Yeah, right."

We eat, the good-natured banter lifting my spirits in a way I hadn't even realised I needed. Having Abby around is good for me, though I hate to admit it. For the past two months I've had nothing to do but brood, but since she got here my thoughts have been lifted out of the repetitive rut they've been stuck in.

"A couple days before I headed down here, I had Fornell down in my lab, and-"

Mike almost chokes on his beer, and I roll my eyes at his lewd guffaw. Abby reaches over and thwacks him on the arm, hard. "Get your mind out of the gutter! Geez!"

"He can't. He's tried." At my words, Abby looks over at me, her expression a picture of silent mirth. Composing himself, Mike shoots me a sardonic look, but she interrupts before he can form a response.

"Fornell said to say 'hey'."

"You told him you were coming down here?" For some reason, the thought of Abby confiding in Tobias stings.

She shakes her head. "He knew before I knew. It was spooky, like he was channelling you or something."

I think of my old friend, drinking my bourbon straight from the bottle, making wisecracks about my boat, and have to smile. "Tell him 'hey', back."

"You two are _so_ communicative," she says, setting her empty plate aside.

Camila laughs, her eyes on Mike. "Reminds me of someone else I know."

Mike shakes his head, changing the subject as he lights up a cigar. Not bothering to ask if anyone minds if he smokes, but that's nothing new. "Looks like it's gonna be good sailing weather tomorrow. You should take the _Caroline_ out."

Abby's eyebrows shoot up. "You have a boat that's actually seaworthy?"

"Not mine," I tell her. "She's Mike's."

She sucks in a breath, grinning. "I'd be careful, Mike. You know what Gibbs does to boats…"

"Builds 'em and burns 'em. Yeah, I got it."

I wait until I'm sure they're finished. "Abbs, when do you need to leave?"

Her mood sobering at the thought of heading back to DC, she shrugs. "Three days, tops."

It's not long enough, but I can't tell her so. Schooling my expression into bland acceptance, trying not to think of how quiet it'll be without her around, I nod. "If you wanna come out on the _Caroline_ with me tomorrow, feel free." I direct the words at Mike and Camila too, but it's not them I'm really asking.

Mike pulls Camila into his lap, and she squeals with surprise. "Think I'm a little busy tomorrow. Thanks all the same."

"You just assume I'll let you do whatever you want? You have no way with women!" she complains through her laughter.

Abby watches them, amused, and I watch her in turn, taking in her distinctive profile. She glances over to find me staring, and her smile widens. "Of course I wanna go sailing," she says. "I've known you, what? Five, six years…?"

"Seven," I chip in, and she seems surprised I remember.

"Wow, you're better with dates than girls. Seven years, and I've never once seen you sail. Saw a whole bunch of your boats, but…"

"It's not that exciting," I warn her.

"Maybe not. But life'd get boring if it was exciting all the time."

I don't bother to correct her logic. It's part of what makes her Abby.

* * *

Around one, Mike and Camila retire to his bedroom, and by unspoken agreement Abby and I stay outside a little longer. She tells me about how her family's doing, about the latest drama in her apartment block, about a million and one safe topics that don't mention any of the people I chose to leave behind. I'm grateful for that.

When her words begin to get lost in giant yawns, I get up, beckoning her with me. "Get some sleep, Abbs."

Following me into the house, she says, "Let me sleep on the couch. I'm not gonna take your bed again."

"You wouldn't get a decent rest," I point out.

"You should really just share the bed with me," she suggests matter-of-factly. Despite her tone, there's a mischievous glint in her eye. "It's big enough for two, and I'd keep my hands to myself. Probably."

I reach for the spare bedding, keeping my back turned while I wrestle with the urge to agree. It's almost too tempting, but I slam down on the agreement before it can emerge. "Night, Abbs…"

I hear her breath escape in a silent giggle, then footsteps heading away from me. "Well, if you change your mind, you know where the bed is… Night, Gibbs."

Between her words and Mike's, I have a lot to think about. It's not just gonna be the old, lumpy couch depriving me of sleep tonight.


	5. Sunscreen

**Author's Note**: This took longer than I thought, but here we are, finally! Thank you for your lovely comments, guys - you're all very, very cool people.

* * *

"Not seasick, are you?" I ask Abby, who's leaning over the starboard side of the _Caroline_.

She sits up and turns her back to the distant coastline, looking up at me. "Nah. Just looking for sharks."

"They scare you?" It doesn't seem like something she'd have a fear of. Then again, neither was autopsy.

She shakes her head. "Not really. Though Tony and I have this theory that being eaten by a shark would be one of the top three worst ways to die."

"What're the other two?"

"Drowning in lava and falling into a woodchipper." The words are completely blasé, as if she's thought about it so much that it's just a non-issue now. That's my Abbs.

"Always thought evisceration would be worst."

She blinks with a slow smile, as if trying to work out if I could possibly have overheard her talking about it sometime. "That was my fourth. Tony disagreed. He said electrocution."

"You ever bring this topic of conversation up with Ducky?" I ask, adjusting the _Caroline_'s course a little.

Thinking of the potential results of _that _discussion, she grins. "I was saving it for a really slow day at work. Haven't had one of those for a while."

She works herself to death and won't let anyone persuade her to slow down. When I was still her boss, I heard people whispering that I was the only person guaranteed to be able to make her listen. It's bullshit. Abby does what she wants, and though she takes everything I say into consideration, her choices are her own. "Abbs-"

"I know, I know. Don't forget to sleep."

"In a bed. Not on your desk or in a rental car." Shaking my head, I watch her try to open her parasol again, only to fold it away again with a sigh as the breeze almost rips it from her grasp. "Why didn't you just take a flight down here?"

She reaches for the sunscreen and begins to massage it over her arms. "I like my hearse. Lots of room to stretch out. I didn't plan for it breaking down, though I guess I probably should have, considering how many times it's happened before."

From the way she fidgets, I can tell it's not strictly the truth. "And…?"

She sighs resignedly, forgetting the sunscreen. "Okay, okay… I wanted to get away. Just for a while. And a road trip seemed like the best option."

I give her my undivided attention; to hell with the boat. It's a rare occasion when Abby actually admits there's something wrong. "You okay?"

She smiles at my concern, her gratitude obvious. "Yeah. Everything's just… hinky and wrong. Y'know?"

I wait, and she takes a deep breath, readying herself to spill what's on her mind. "Tony's acting like he's you, and McGee's acting like he's Tony. Ziva acts like there's something bothering her, and I think it's the whole she-killed-Ari thing-"

Wait. What the…? "Abbs, how do you know about that?"

She gives me an amused look, as if she can't believe I'm asking the question. "I worked that evidence, Gibbs. I saw the crime scene sketches and photos, and I handled the ballistics and the forensics… The blood splatter, the trajectory of the bullet… they don't mesh with your story."

I should have realised at the time that she'd figure it out, but my mind had been busy trying to process Kate's murder. Ari's death had left a void where my obsession used to be, and I'd overlooked a lot of things that week.

Abby's voice cuts through my thoughts. "And don't worry – I mean, it's not like I'm gonna tell anyone. Ziva doesn't know I know, and neither did you by the sound of it."

"I should've told you."

She only smiles and shrugs, total forgiveness in her posture. "I get why you didn't."

For a second we're quiet, enjoying the gentle rocking of the boat and the slap of waves against the hull. I break the silence first, wanting to get her back on track. "Anything else hinky going on?"

She blinks, as if surfacing from a memory, and smiles at my use of one of her Abbyisms. "Right. Hinkiness. McGee's finally gotten someone to call 'Probie'. Her name's Michelle. She's nice, but kinda quiet."

It's not hard to imagine McGee seizing the opportunity to rise through the pecking order, and I chuckle at the thought. "Bet he's happy."

"Oh, he is. Though he's pissed off that Tony still calls _him_ 'Probie'. He hasn't said anything, but you can kinda see it lurking beneath the surface."

"Mike still calls me that, even now," I point out, though I can understand McGee's frustration. Went through it myself, once. "You should tell him that."

"I think he'd take it better coming from you," she answers casually, giving no sign that she's pushing for me to return to DC. I'm surprised; she's missed a perfect opening.

"Anyway. There's that… and Ducky. He doesn't call you Jethro any more. What did you say to him, Gibbs?"

Her eyes are distressed, as if she can't bear to think that we parted on bad terms. The truth is that we didn't – we parted on hardly any terms at all. "It was more what I didn't say."

At the time, I'd been too numb and grief-stricken to form an explanation as to why I never told him about Shannon and Kelly. I didn't say a word to him, and I regret it now.

"He's mad. Or disappointed. Hard to say."

I push aside guilt, attempting to bury it under stoicism. It doesn't work, and I'm left to speak the sentiment I've been trying to deny for two months. "I handled it badly, Abbs. I handled the whole thing badly."

She shakes her head vigorously. "No! Under the circumstances, you held up as well as you could. Doesn't make you a bad person."

Her forgiveness is given freely and unconditionally, and it absolves me in a way I didn't realise I needed. With a tiny nod of acknowledgement, I gaze out across the waves. In my peripheral vision, I see her begin to apply sunscreen to the strip of skin between the hem of her skirt and the tops of her skull-covered knee-socks.

When she finishes she glances across at me, a little hesitantly. "Could you…?" She indicates her back, left mostly bare by a shirt that holds itself in place by way of several thin fabric strips. "I can't reach."

All thoughts of DC flee my mind as I imagine running my fingers over her flesh. Every synapse in my brain simultaneously cries _no!_ and _yes!_ Doubting my self-control, yet hoping for it to break, I take the bottle from her. She turns her back and holds still, waiting.

Squeezing a little sunscreen onto my fingers, I ask the question that will distract us both. "So tell me why you're really here, Abbs."

"I…" Her words falter as my fingers connect with her skin, smoothing the lotion over her back. A tiny shiver thrills through her, almost unnoticeable.

Any notion I once had that she felt nothing more for me than friendship dies in an instant. Testing her reaction, I slow my hand, taking my time to massage the sunscreen into her skin. Stifling a sigh, she fidgets to cover another shiver, glancing around at the vast expanse of water around us. "Sure you want to have this discussion on a boat?"

"It's as good a place as any." And neither of us can bail out if the conversation turns to a confrontation. I haven't decided whether that's a blessing or a curse.

"If you say so…" She takes a moment to collect her thoughts, then begins to speak. "You weren't exactly supposed to know I was here."

It's not news to me. The night I found her at the cantina, she'd said as much to the bartender. "So you came down here…"

"…to make sure you were coping." Her quiet voice cuts across mine, and I let my hand drop from her back as she turns to face me, fixing me with a frank expression. "I'm so used to you being strong, and stoic, and in control. When I saw you in the hospital, in a _coma_, I didn't know what to do, what to think, how to help… It was scary."

Before I can interrupt, she ploughs on, the words falling over themselves now. "And then you left, without letting me say anything. You just looked so sad, y'know? Like something in you was broken. And that was the last time I saw you. I didn't know if you were happy, or sad, or angry, or depressed, or relieved to leave DC behind, and not knowing was killing me. So I just wanted to… check."

She shrugs with a bittersweet smile. "You seem better. You are, right?"

I don't know how to answer her. Up until a couple of days ago, I thought so. Dulling the pain with sunshine and beer, I've been wallowing in memories of what happened in '91, re-healing old wounds, trying to distance myself again. It's been working, but until Abby showed up and reminded me of home, I hadn't realised how much I missed my old life.

"Gibbs?" she prompts, worried.

Gently, I take her shoulders and spin her so that her back's to me again and continue applying sunscreen. "Jen tell you why I joined NIS?"

"Ducky did," she confirms, voice sad. "I'm so sorry, Gibbs."

From anyone else, the platitude would be irritating. From Abby, it's easier to swallow, though opening up about the whole thing isn't high on my list of things to do today. "Me too."

She senses my discomfort and backs away from the subject, beginning a monologue about how much she hates the sun, and the risks of skin cancer and heatstroke. I cut across her when her explanation begins to include words of over six syllables. "Abbs."

She shuts up, laughing. "I just can't help myself, can I?"

I chuckle, deciding to take the plunge. "So were you waiting until just before you leave to try and talk me into going back to DC?"

Abby turns again, eyes wide with feigned innocence. "Would I do that?"

"Mmm-hmm…" I tap her back with the sunscreen bottle, reminding her that I still have a couple of spots to finish, and she settles back into position.

"I guess I would. I miss you, Gibbs. I mean, we all miss you. But I miss you most."

I hear the pain and longing in her voice, subtle undertones that'd be undetectable if I wasn't listening for them. And I can relate. "I miss you, too."

She glances back with a fleeting smile before focusing her eyes on the horizon once more. Long seconds pass as her shoulders grow tense under my fingers. She's obviously working up to something.

"And I…" The words trail off, leaving my curiosity aflame as she shakes her head slightly.

"You what, Abbs?"

"Nothing," she says, too quickly.

I slide my fingers over her taut muscles, the pretence of sunscreen abandoned as I try to calm her. Gradually, she relaxes into my touch, letting her shoulders drop. It seems the most natural thing in the world to lean forward and kiss the top of her head, and she holds her breath to suppress a gasp, a tremor running through her.

It's enough to breach the little self-control I have left, and I kiss the side of her neck softly, my lips lingering longer than I'd planned. "Breathe, Abbs," I remind her, and she draws a shaky breath, then another.

"Gibbs…" she whispers, as if seeking confirmation that it's really me doing this to her.

"Right here." The words make her laugh as she twists to face me, her eyes alight with desire, hope and mischief.

"Okay, just as soon as we get off this boat, I'm gonna kiss you."

Intrigue battling confusion for dominance in my mind, I run a finger down her cheek, cupping her face in my hand. She leans into the touch, closing her eyes, as I ask her, "Why not now?"

The grin that accompanies her shrewd words is dazzling, showing no trace of jealousy. "Because you have a boat fetish. How many women have you seduced on boats, Gibbs?"

About eighty per cent of the women I've been with, but she doesn't need to know that. She reads the answer in my frown, though, and snuggles into my arms with a giggle. "Thought so."

I want to get mad, but the feeling is lost in a tirade of affection. I hold her for a minute, breathing with her, memorising every little detail of the embrace. Her fingers begin to chase up and down my neck, and I ease her away before I can give in to the temptation to tilt up her chin and kiss her into submission. "Think we've had enough sailing for one day."

Watching me prepare to turn the _Caroline_ around, she sits down with a smile that's just a little smug. "Take me home, Gunny."

* * *

**Now, I'm thinking I'll stay PG-13 for this fic. Which is no mean feat for me. XD Then again, if more people want outright smut than fluff and allusions, I can change my plans...**


	6. Challenge

**Author's Note: **Guys, you're awesome. Seriously awesome. And wow, so many cries for smut! Still not a hundred per cent which way I'll go - I'll see when I start the next chapter. I had trouble with this one, but it came together in the end. Hope you like!

* * *

We dock at the marina, and Abby follows me onto dry land, stumbling slightly as her legs readjust. I put a hand out to steady her, though she's hardly off-balance enough to warrant it.

We begin to head slowly back toward the parking lot, her parasol shading her once again, sending dappled shadows across her face as she idly twists its handle. "So," she starts, with a playful glance across at me.

"So," I echo, waiting for her to get to the point, and her smile widens.

"We're off the boat."

Amused, I nod. If she can string this out, so can I. "Guess we are."

We arrive back at the truck, which I left beside the rental car she was too drunk to drive two nights ago. Abby leans against the driver's door of her rental, watching me. "So what now?"

"You tell me," I say, halting less than a foot away from her. "You're the one making the rules."

For a second I think she's going to remind me of _my_ penchant for rules, but she restrains herself, shaking her head and grabbing the front of my shirt, pulling me into a kiss. There's no hesitation in the movement, her lips teasing mine with assured sensuality, but I sense her wonder and joy as I take control of the embrace, unable to help myself.

My arms close around her, drawing her near, and her parasol falls to the ground, forgotten. Her body moulds perfectly against mine. When we break for air, hardly registering the distant catcalls of some nearby teenagers, I watch her gasp for breath and fight the urge to take her right there, up against the car.

Almost immediately, she leans in for a second kiss. I shake my head, though the last thing I want to do is dissuade her. "Not here."

Cocking her head to one side, she folds her arms across her chest and leans back against the car. "It's not like I'm gonna start ripping off your clothes in the street, Gibbs. You think I have no self-control?" she teases.

"Not your self-control I'm worried about, Abbs."

She considers my words, seeming intrigued by the notion of me out of control. Then, with a thoughtful nod, she reaches behind herself to pop open the driver's door of the rental. "See you back at Mike's," she murmurs, and before I can stop her she gives me another swift kiss.

The need to completely possess her, to drive every thought out of her head until the only thing she remembers is my name, is almost overwhelming. "Abby…" I growl, and she recognises it immediately for the warning it is, backing off with a giggle and scooping up her fallen parasol.

"I'll race you back."

I head for the truck, concentrating on the challenge to distract myself from the craving her kiss has evoked. "You'll get lost halfway there."

Sliding behind the wheel, Abby snorts. "Please. I might not have Ziva's photographic memory, but my sense of direction rocks. One time, I woke up at this guy's house after a random drunken one-night stand, and I had no idea where I was. Still managed to find my way home in less than an hour."

Amused, I slam the truck door shut and start the engine. She follows suit, turning the key in the ignition, and immediately her stereo begins blasting some of that noise she calls music. Not sticking around to absorb it, I pull out of the space, making for the main street out of town, and catch her surprised expression in my rearview mirror as she realises she's been left behind.

We stick to the speed limit until we leave town, but once out on the open road we both hit the gas. Abby has the advantage – the rental's only a couple years old and easier to handle – but by now I'm used to the truck, and it's deceptively fast for what it is. It takes longer than I'd expected for her to draw level with me.

"Still confident?" she calls, one eye on the road.

"I never realised you were so competitive!" I yell back, my words drowned out by her music.

She reads my lips and shrugs. "I have a younger brother, and I work with McGee! It pretty much comes with the territory!"

We slow to take a corner, and as soon as we're back on a straight she floors it, zooming past with a flippant wave that ignites the competitive streak in me. There's only so fast I can take the truck, though, and her lead increases until she vanishes into the distance.

Just when I'm almost convinced I've no hope of victory, I approach the fork in the road that'll lead us to Mike's, and can't help but laugh. Abby's rental is idling there, and I accelerate straight past her, taking the left fork and leaving her in the dust.

She catches up after a couple of minutes, hanging on right behind me, and by the time we approach the dirt-track that will lead us to the beach we're neck and neck. The track's narrow, and there's no room for overtaking. Whoever takes the corner first will have an easy victory, and we both know it.

She puts on a burst of speed, hoping to overtake me, but I've managed to manoeuvre the truck onto the left side of the road, and as the turning approaches I cut the corner, taking the lead and feeling more than a little smug.

She yells something, but it's lost on the wind as I leave her behind. Pulling up outside Mike's place, I get out of the truck and watch her park the rental beside me.

"You…" she starts, pointing an accusatory finger at me as she tries in vain to look angry. The façade slips almost immediately, and she cracks up.

"Rule twenty-one, Abbs," I remind her.

She rolls her eyes, reciting along with me, "_Know your environment_. But you live here – I don't! Plus you're field-trained in evasive driving and all sorts of super-Special-Agent stuff-"

"Making excuses for yourself?" I tease, cutting her off.

"No way!" she says, holding up her hands. "You totally won, and that means you get a prize. I don't know if you want my parasol, or my Caf-Pow! stash, or Bert, but that's pretty much all I have with me-"

Subtlety has never been Abby's strong suit, and even McGee at his most naïve would guess what kind of reward she has in mind for me. I silence her with a kiss, claiming my prize, the adrenaline of the chase colliding with the need coursing through me. The result is a desire so intense that it's an effort to remember how to speak. "You know what I want."

"Then take it," she breathes against my lips, pulling free of my grip and making a dash toward the house.


	7. ThirtySix Hours

**Author's Note**: Okay... so... umm... I couldn't write full-on smut. Sorry to disappoint everyone who pushed for it... I tried, but I find it hard to write that sort of thing from a male perspective when I'm really... y'know. Female. XD But yeah. Hopefully what I did write isn't too much of a let-down! And once again, thank you for all the support. :)

* * *

There are things about Abby that stick in my memory, minute details that remain vivid whether I've just walked out of her lab or haven't seen her in two months.

Her pigtails, flicking through the air as she snaps her head around whenever I sneak up on her. Her shoulders, squaring with determination when she's faced with a puzzle. The way she freezes in her tracks for a split-second whenever a new idea hits her. Her easy grin, appearing at the slightest provocation.

Now I have a whole new set of memories to draw upon, to keep me going once she's left. Her lips, trailing a sensuous path down my neck, over my chest, lower. Her thighs, wrapped around my waist, drawing me further into her as her nails dig into my shoulders. The way her mostly-forgotten New Orleans drawl creeps out when she's aroused, the vowels drawn out a little more than usual as her husky voice raises an octave with pleasure.

The light ghosting of her breath against my neck as she drowses in my arms, her naked curves highlighted by the luminous glow of the moon.

It doesn't take long for me to drop into a sated sleep of my own. It falls upon me before I have time to remember she'll be gone soon, and I'm glad of that.

At some point I register her slipping out of my arms and getting out of bed, but I'm too exhausted to move. Figuring she's gone to the bathroom or to grab a glass of water, I drift off again, and it's not until I wake about thirty minutes later that it occurs to me to follow her.

Throwing on my clothes, I go in search of her, my concern growing as I realise that she hasn't turned on any lights. Finding no trace of her in the house, I venture onto the porch, scanning the moonlit beach for her silhouette.

A familiar, faintly obscene noise jars me, cluing me in to her location. I look up at the roof, taking in the sight of her perched on the edge, her legs swinging into space. I don't waste words, not when I haven't had a coffee in about six hours. "Why?"

She squeezes Bert again, looking a little forlorn. "Needed to think."

Carefully, I head up the ladder to sit beside her. "About what?"

She chews her lower lip, fingers drumming across the stuffed hippo's body. Her expressive eyes full of apprehension, she meets my gaze. "I want to stay."

A part of me – the selfish part – wants to tell her she should, but we both know the outcome of this conversation. Actually having it is just a formality. "You don't."

Abby scowls. "I wouldn't say it if I didn't."

"You hate the sun."

"There's plenty of it in DC, and I haven't shrivelled up or burst into flames yet," she counters.

"You hate the beach."

"I hate working cold cases, too, but I do it."

"You'd be bored after a week."

That silences her. We both know it's the truth. Her life, her friends, her job… she loves them all. If she stayed here, she'd try to convince me to accompany her back to DC, and when I refused she'd start to resent me for it. She'd say things; I'd say things; it wouldn't end well. I see the knowledge flash across her face before she leans her head against my shoulder, defeated. "I know."

I pull her close, kissing the top of her head. There's nothing I can say to reassure either of us.

After a while, she speaks, her voice huskier than usual with emotion. "Two days, Gibbs. That's all we have. Not even two full days – like, a day and a half! Then you'll be here and I'll be there, and I don't know what I'm gonna do…"

"I'll visit," I tell her, the words doing nothing to stave off the sense of loss encroaching on the edge of my mind.

"You think you'll ever move back to DC?" she whispers, as if afraid of the answer.

"Right now, Abbs… I can't even think it." Out here, it's easy not to focus on specific memories, but the thought of setting foot in the house I've lived in for over twenty years makes me wince.

She squeezes my hand, choosing not to push it. When she speaks again, she's screened most of the pain from her voice, and she tries a wan smile. "Then for the next thirty-six hours we make the most of the time we have."

I kiss her softly, and she melts against me, greedy for contact. "C'mon. Let's get off the roof."

Tucking Bert under her arm, she follows me down to ground level and back to bed, curling up against me. One of her fingers runs idly up and down my arm, and I know she's dwelling on how little time we have left. It's hurting me, too. We lie together, unable to relax, unspoken tension between us.

The thought of waking up in less than a week, knowing she's thousands of miles away, is tearing me apart. But there's no alternative. Right now, I can't go back to DC, and I can't let Abby stay here. There's no middle ground; it's an impossible situation.

As if reading my mind, she twists in my arms, wrapping her legs around mine and kissing me desperately. I crush her to me, her urgency igniting my own, and we don't stop until I collapse on the mattress beside her, smoothing a damp tendril of hair from her face as we bask in the afterglow.

"Gibbs?" she whispers, her voice a little ragged from exertion.

She doesn't need to say the words. They're so overused and cliché that they're better left unspoken. "I know, Abbs."

She smiles, nods and burrows under the covers, drawing my arm around her like a blanket. We've said all we need to.


	8. Departure

**Author's Note**: Thank heavens for library computers! Still haven't got the internet set up in my new apartment, but hey...

* * *

Mike's reaction is predictable. Arriving back at the house the next morning to find Abby curled up against me on the couch, he halts in the doorway for a second. "Huh. 'Bout damn time." Without waiting for a response, he makes straight for the refrigerator and pulls out a beer, and the day continues on.

The time passes too quickly, and though we make the most of every second I always have one eye on the clock, mentally calculating how much longer we have together.

The morning of Abby's departure dawns grey and sombre. She stirs and opens her eyes, smiling a little as she realises I'm watching her. "What time is…?" She remembers what day it is, and sighs. "No, don't tell me."

For a second we lie in silence, trying to forget what has to happen. Then she bites her lip. "Damn it, I need to know. What time?"

"Around eight."

She reaches out for me, crestfallen, and I hold her close, stroking her hair. When her breath catches, I realise she's forcing back tears. "Hey…" I say softly, and she releases the air she's holding as a sob.

"This is so hard," she whispers.

I kiss the top of her head. "I know, Abbs." God, do I know.

It takes a couple of minutes for her to calm down, but it seems like an eternity. I know I'm the reason for her misery, and I've never felt so powerless. When she kisses me, her tears subsiding, I completely immerse myself in the moment. Her tongue teases mine as my fingers run over every inch of her exposed skin. Her body arches into my touches with a decadent languor that spurs me on.

The thing I've learned about Abby over the last couple of days is that she loves it hard, fast, rough, raw. But we both know this isn't the time for that. This is a goodbye, no matter how much we want to deny it, and there are things that need to be said, things that can't be expressed in words.

She gasps into my mouth as I slip a hand between her legs, keeping the touch slow, teasing her. We take our time, memorising each other's bodies, storing away the knowledge of what reaction each touch, each caress, will elicit. It's not until over an hour later that we force ourselves out of bed. She showers while I make coffee; then she packs while I take my turn under the hot spray.

I find her on the porch, her luggage beside her, staring with trepidation at her rental car. "Ready?" I ask gently.

"No." Her voice is distressed, her eyes full of tears again. "How do you make yourself ready for something like this? You just can't. I mean, I tried to psych myself up for it, I thought about it a lot, but it didn't work, and I-"

I silence her with a finger to her lips, belatedly realising I did the same thing when I left NCIS. Not the best move I could have made right then. Abby makes the connection too, but surprises me by smiling rather than letting it depress her.

"What?" I ask, curious to know what's going on in her ingenious mind.

She only shakes her head. "So, I guess this is it, then."

"You have the number I gave you?"

Nodding, she holds up her cellphone. "You're sure Camila's okay with me having it?"

"She was the one who suggested it."

Leaning on the railing, she shoots me an amused glance. "Remind me again why you can't just leave your cell switched on?"

"Don't wanna talk to most of the people who have the number." The time I switched my cell on for just long enough for her to trace it, I'd been thinking of calling her lab. I'd decided against it because I didn't want anyone else overhearing her conversation and trying to get in touch. I needed to be cut off from the outside world as much as Mike did, even if the outside world included Abby.

Now we have an arrangement; once a week, I'll call her. In an emergency, she can call Camila, who'll get a message to me.

Understanding, she rests her head on my shoulder. "Gonna miss you."

There's a thought that's been bugging me all morning. I can't stand the thought of her pining for me when I might not see her for months. As much as the idea of her being with other guys hurts, it's the way it's always been between us. "Abbs… Promise me something."

"Depends on the 'something'." She senses I'm serious and frowns up at me. "What?"

I force the words out. "Don't put your life on hold for me. If you find someone-"

She interrupts, rolling her eyes. "Gibbs, please. Like I've had a serious, one hundred per cent committed relationship since I met you, anyway."

I could mention McGee's name, or Mikel Mawher's, but now isn't the time. "Just promise me."

"If you promise me the same thing," she replies, seeming entirely unthreatened. It's as if she knows how much of a non-issue it's gonna be for me. I've been hit on by a couple of the women in town over the last couple months, but haven't been even vaguely tempted.

"Alright. Deal."

Nodding, she steps into my arms. "Deal."

I hold her tightly, casting a glance up at the sun. "If you're gonna make the border by tonight, you better get going." I force the words out, feel her sigh in response.

"This isn't goodbye, so I'm not gonna say it."

"Didn't expect you to," I reply, following her off the porch steps. We throw her bags into the back of the rental, and she leans back against the car.

"Gibbs, I…" When she looks up at me, her smile is apprehensive. "When you left, and you wouldn't let me say anything… Oh, god." Stepping away from me, she begins to pace, avoiding my eyes. "Okay, I've needed to get this out since I realised you were leaving, but I don't want you to say anything, cause if you do, I don't think I can walk away from you."

I wait, but although she stops fidgeting after a few moments, she can't bring herself to speak. "Okay," I say softly, reminding her I'm still here and listening.

She swallows, takes a shaky breath, and says the words that make the moment simultaneously better and worse. "I love you, Gibbs. Always have. Didn't stop when you left."

My stomach turns with the knowledge of just what I'm losing by letting her go, but it's a distant emotion compared to the fierce, possessive elation of hearing her say it. "Abbs-" I start.

She reads my response in my face, and throws up a hand to stop me from continuing, eyes tearful as she answers my half-smile with one of her own. "Don't. Please."

I kiss her instead, kiss her until she forgets her tears, until the hard knot of grief in my gut has temporarily unravelled into a tangled mess and all I want to do is carry her back inside the house. But I can't. And she's already an hour late leaving.

"Get going," I tell her, the words harsher than they need to be. But for as long as I've known her, she's been able to see past the things I say to what I mean, and she nods, no condemnation in her face.

With a last swift kiss, she slides behind the wheel of the rental, pulling the door shut behind her with a thud of finality. As she starts the engine and buckles her seatbelt, I retreat to the porch, taking myself out of reach of the driver's door handle before I can give in to temptation.

Abby puts the car in reverse, turns it towards town. Draws parallel with the porch, and hesitates. For seconds that seem more like minutes, we gaze at each other, her stricken eyes finding mine. She shifts in her seat, and for a fleeting moment I'm sure she's about to jump out of the car. But it passes. With a tiny mock-salute, she hits the gas and pulls away from the house.

I stay on the porch steps until long after the sound of the engine has faded away, lost in memories, thoughts, imaginings. And then, as I do with so many other things in my life, I put it to the back of my mind, heading for the refrigerator and pulling out a beer, grabbing my tools and ascending the ladder to the roof once more.

It's not until I get into bed that night that I let my thoughts return to her. My fingers brush against something under the pillow, something that feels like paper. Flicking on the bedside lamp, I sit up and stare at the parting gift Abby's left for me: a printout of a digital photograph, wrapped in a short note.

_Remember this?_

_A._

Under her initial is a crudely drawn skull-and-crossbones design, her trademark signature. Smiling a little, I set aside the note and turn my attention to the photograph.

It was taken the day NCIS were issued with newer, higher-spec digital cameras, round about three years ago. DiNozzo had spent a good part of that morning taking pictures of everyone and everything in the office, and pissing everyone off in the process. We'd headed down to Abby's lab to check if she had anything to report, and DiNozzo had halted in the doorway, camera at the ready, as I'd put a hand on her shoulder.

The picture itself shows her gazing up at me as I hand her a Caf-Pow!, a smile pulling at the corners of my lips. To anyone who'd never seen us together, it would almost look as though we were lovers.

Of course, as soon as I realised DiNozzo was still carrying that damn camera around, I'd told him that if he took one more picture I'd have him transferred to a desk job by the end of the week. He'd handed the offending object to Abby, who'd told him she'd pull the photos from its chip and email them to him. She must have kept hold of this one.

I fold the note around it carefully and set it down on the nightstand, a reminder of the past few days. As if I needed it.

**

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**

Next up (when I can get online again): Gibbs gets that phone call from Ziva... Yep, we're heading into _Shalom_ territory!


	9. Reluctant Hero

**Author's Note: **Thank you so much, everyone! I really appreciate the comments. Sadly I'm still internetless, so I'm sorry I haven't been able to reply to reviews lately.

If you haven't seen _Shalom_ or _E_s_caped_, this fic might leave you behind a little now, so apologies for that (and go watch them, they're great episodes!). A lot of this dialogue is taken from _Shalom_, but I've added stuff here and there. Sorry for the lack of original content, it was a necessary evil. This is one of the only scenes I'll be directly using in the fic.

* * *

"Will you quit lookin' at that thing? What's done is done, Probie. You know that as well as I do."

I fold up the photograph as Mike drops into the deckchair on the porch. "Yeah. But whether or not it's done is my choice." I could head back up to DC, ask for reinstatement, sew together the tatters of my old life. It's been two months since Abby left, long enough for me to start idly considering it.

Sighing, Mike watches me ascend the ladder to the roof. "I won't deny she's a hell of a woman. But no broad's worth moping over like this."

Moping? It's not even worth the effort to retort. Picking up the hammer, I resume working on the roof. As soon as I repair one section, another springs a leak. At least it's keeping me busy.

Mike falls silent, and for a while all I can hear is the rush of the waves and the sounds of the tools I'm using. Then he growls something, and I let up with the hammer, leaning over the edge of the roof. "Hey! You say something?"

He's spilled his beer down his shirt, and predictably, that's my fault. "Four months, and you still don't understand the meaning of the word _siesta_, Probie?" he complains, scowling up at me.

I understand it. I just don't need the time to relax and obsess about how things with Abby could have come to a better conclusion. "Roof's not gonna fix itself, Mike. Tropical storm season's only a few weeks away."

"You ever stop to think that I might like rain?" he asks, struggling to his feet.

"Yeah, just maybe not inside your house." I head down to ground level, thinking to grab some more nails.

"Don't you have a boat to build, or something?" he asks, tossing me a beer.

We both glance over at the shell of the boat I started just after Abby's visit. Old habits are hard to break. I lose a girl, I start a boat.

"Well, the problem with that, Mike, is that I'm using all my good lumber to fix your dog-rot house."

Mike snorts. "I got a better idea. Why don't you use it to build your own, somewhere down there?" He gestures vaguely down the beach, and I take a long swill of beer while I consider his words. I'd thought this day was coming.

"Hey, you just say the word and I'll be gone."

"Don't tempt me, Jethro… I ain't nearly drunk enough!" He tries for irritated, but the result is amusement. He'll put up with me for a while longer. Just as well, really. I have no idea what my next move would be.

"But until then," he continues, "I was thinking your next project could be a nice little hot tub, say, yea big, right over there."

It's something I've never tried my hand at. For some reason – probably alcohol-related – the idea appeals. "Teak or redwood?"

"_Hola_, gentlemen!" Neither of us have noticed Camila's approach. Things have cooled off a little between she and Mike recently, but they keep gravitating towards one another. It's interesting to watch.

"Gentlemen? She can't be talking to you and me, Gunny."

Camila smiles sweetly. "You? No. _Señor_ Gibbs, _si_." I chuckle, recognising one of her attempts to piss Mike off. "I hope you're not letting him work you so hard," she tells me, obviously more concerned than she's letting on.

She knows I'm using work to put Abby out of my mind, and I don't want to talk about it. I hand her my beer and watch her take a sip. "Nah."

"He's livin' here for free, what does he expect?" Mike cuts in wryly.

She shoots me a measuring look. "Perhaps some day he will tell us."

Pissed that she's paying me more attention than him, Mike steps in front of me. "Hey! How much do I owe you?"

Camila laughs softly. "Twenty-five American. And you have a phone call."

"Okay," Mike grumbles, beginning to count out cash and looking towards her cell expectantly.

"Not you. Leroy… Jethro." She dials a number into the phone and holds it out to me.

I blink across at her, surprised. "Who is it?"

"A woman. And she sounded _muy_ upset." If it was Abby, she'd say so. But no one else knows how to reach me through Camila. Maybe something's wrong-

I slam down on the thoughts before they can fully form and take the cell from her grip. Beside me, Mike snickers. "Huh. Probably that _lady director_ of yours, 'bout to have a nervous breakdown…"

We've had so many discussions about Jenny, there's no point in answering him. Instead, I answer the call. "Yeah, Gibbs."

The voice that answers is a little subdued, but instantly recognisable. "_Hola_. Uh… how's Mexico?"

It's more of a statement than a question, so I don't bother to answer her. "Ziva! How'd you get this number?" As if I don't already know.

As I walk around to the side of the house, out of Mike and Camila's sight if not their earshot, she says, "From Abby. And if it helps, I forced it out of her."

Though I'm more tolerant of Abby than anyone else, right now she's not high on my list of favourite people. This better be important. "No. It doesn't. What's wrong?"

Ziva tries to affect a casual air, but we both know she's not fooling me. "Why does something always have to be wrong? Can't I just speak with an old friend? Do a little… catching up?"

"Today, Ziva," I snap, impatience getting the better of me.

"Okay. I may be in a little bit of trouble."

I hold back a sigh, knowing exactly what's coming. "Yeah? Define 'little'."

"I am currently on the run from the FBI, NCIS, Mossad and my father."

My eyebrows shoot up. That's impressive. "Geez, what'd you do?"

"I did nothing, Gibbs." A hint of hollow despair creeps into her tone, and my gut tells me that as far as she knows, it's the truth. "I swear, I did nothing."

"Where's DiNozzo?" They work well as a team; they can figure something out.

Her response is immediate. "Can't help me."

Probably the damn FBI. Wonder if Tobias is in on this? "Well, you should talk to Jenny. Jenny could help you."

"I can't." She seems close to tears. I get the feeling I'm one of the only people she trusts enough to cry around, a notion I never know what to make of.

Though I know I owe her a lot, and that she needs someone right now, I don't want to even think about going near an NCIS investigation. Not after how the last one turned out. "Ziva, look! I'm retired! I'm three thousand miles away! What do you think I can do that they can't do?"

I can almost hear her flinch. "Honestly, I don't know. I was hoping, maybe… save me?" Though she's trying to hide it, she's definitely in tears now.

I've never been great around crying women. Guess I have no choice. My mind made up, I end the call and take a moment to collect my thoughts before dialling another number from memory.

"Speak to me!"

"What's with Ziva?" I ask, smiling a little at the sound of Abby's voice, despite myself.

"Gibbs! Things are really, really, really bad!" Her voice drops to a frantic murmur. I can imagine her glancing around the lab to check she's alone.

"I know. I just got off the phone with her."

"I'm sorry I gave her Camila's number. But Ziva went AWOL and now she's on the FBI's most wanted list and her car was found abandoned at the scene of what looks like a Mossad-sanctioned bombing, and I didn't know what else to do, so-"

"Abbs."

She catches her breath. "Yeah?"

"It's okay."

"She didn't do it, Gibbs. I know it. I just don't know how to prove it." She calms down at my reassurance, but she's far from relaxed and happy.

"Tell me everything you know." She does; it's not much more than she's already babbled. They don't tend to keep forensics – or the colleagues of the suspect – in the loop when it comes to the minor details. Ziva would probably be able to tell me more. When she finishes, I tell her, "Don't worry. Do what you can, but don't countermand the FBI."

"I kinda already did," she whispers. "I was supposed to let them and the Director know as soon as Ziva got in touch."

"Don't do anything else off the radar. I'm gonna take the next redeye up to DC."

I can practically hear her grin. "My hero."

Chuckling, I run a hand through my hair. "Reluctant hero."

"But a hero nonetheless." Her words are calmer, now thick with amusement. "Let me know when your flight gets in, and I'll pick you up from the airport."

"You sure?"

"If you're lucky, I'll let you crash at my place, too," she continues provocatively. I recognise the compassion beneath the words, her concern that I might not be ready to revisit my house and reopen old wounds… again.

"I'll call as soon as I know when the flight gets in," I tell her. "Keep your head down, Abbs."

When I hang up, feeling a little more optimistic, I call Ziva back. She answers with a tentative, "Yes?"

"I'm taking the next flight up to DC. Where do I find you when I get in?"

"Gibbs…" she says, the word almost a gasp of relief. "I am… at your house."

I only just manage to bite back the irritated retort that leaps to mind. I know that my place is the last place the FBI would think to look, but I'd hoped to avoid going there as much as I could.

"Stay put," I say finally, and end the call.

Without giving myself time to dwell on it, I head round to the front of the house again, where Mike and Camila shoot me curious looks. I hand Camila's cell back to her and keep going, into the house.

They leave me be, though I hear them speculating in low voices, until I venture back out onto the porch with a bag slung over my shoulder.

"Where you goin', Probie?"

"DC," I answer shortly, and turn to Camila. "Can I catch a ride?"


	10. Restless

**Author's Note**: Posting from the library agaaaain... god, I hate my phone company. / Thanks for the comments, everyone - I swear I wouldn't be writing so much if you weren't there to encourage me. Hugs and chocolate all round!

* * *

When I get through customs and head for the exit, I spot Abby immediately. She's sitting cross-legged on one of the waiting area chairs, seeming absorbed in one of her forensics journals. The fingers of one hand skitter out a staccato rhythm against the page, belying her apparent concentration.

"You just got up and you're on a caffeine high?" I say, and she drops the journal, scrambling to her feet and throwing her arms around me.

"Gibbs! Thank god you're here!" I feel her breath against my neck and pull her close, letting myself forget everything else for a few moments. She seems reluctant to let go, and I extricate myself with difficulty.

Grinning, she looks me over. "Whoa. You went Robinson Crusoe on me."

I touch a hand to the hair that was slightly unkempt when she found me in Mexico, that's now grown longer than I can get away with. I haven't shaved in days, and if I hadn't spoken to her first she probably wouldn't have recognised me. Before I'd left, Mike had asked, snickering, if I was gonna tidy myself up, but I didn't have the time and, frankly, couldn't care less.

I open my mouth to explain myself, but she interrupts before I can begin. "I like it."

Chuckling, I pick up her journal and hand it to her. "Let's get going."

She takes it, her head cocking to one side analytically as she studies me. I return the favour, taking in her familiar stance, her trademark tiny skirt, the shirt that's cut just low enough to remind me what I've been missing. She raises an eyebrow suggestively, and I chuckle. "Later, Abbs."

"You promise?"

When we get inside her hearse, she pauses before turning the key in the ignition. "You okay?"

"Mmm-hmm." I don't want to talk about it after a three-thousand mile trip, and she senses now isn't the time.

"Where to?" she asks instead.

"My place."

Abby shoots me a startled glance. "That's the last place I thought you'd wanna go."

She's right. "Ziva's there."

She takes a second to consider this new piece of information. "Wow. Smart move." Carefully, she pulls the hearse out of its parking space and guides it toward the exit. "Sucks for you, though."

Biting back a sigh, I gaze out at the road ahead. "If this was about what I want-"

"You wouldn't even be here," she interrupts softly. There's no bitterness in her tone, but her words are enough to make me glance over at her. Her eyes are fixed on the road, her fingers still tapping against the wheel, only a trace of melancholy in her face.

The statement's almost true. There's nothing left for me in DC. Nothing except for Abby. "Abbs," I start, but she holds up a hand.

"Ziva first. Heart-to-heart later."

She's right, and I allow myself a wry nod. "Fill me in on what's happened since I called you."

* * *

_Note: I wasn't going to write out scene by scene what happens in _Shalom_... This scene takes place after Gibbs and Ziva avoid getting blown up in the house with the dead guy with the motorcycle helmet on._

* * *

It's been a long day, and the only thing I've done is almost get myself blown up. Again. After I leave Jenny's office, I head straight down to Abby's lab, needing to take a break from the madness of this case.

When I get there, it's dark and silent, the only illumination coming from the refrigeration units that stand against one wall. But of course, she wouldn't be here. By the sound of things, the FBI has jurisdictional control of the forensics, and it's past ten.

I leave the NCIS building, knowing there's nothing more I can do until Ducky and Palmer have finished the autopsy and the FBI have clued Jenny in on what they have. I'll be good for nothing if I don't sleep.

Ziva's still holed up at my place, and she'll be safe there tonight. I left my car in DC when I left for Mexico, and I picked it up from the house along with Ziva this morning. I turn it toward Abby's apartment block now, and I'm there within a few minutes.

I still remember the code to her building, so I forgo announcing myself and take the elevator up to her floor. When she answers her door she gasps with relief, throwing herself into my arms. "Gibbs! Thank god you're okay! I heard about the explosion, and I tried to call you, but your phone was in a reception dead zone or something, and…"

She trails off, looking me over as if to check that all of my limbs are still attached. For the first time, I register that she's wearing only a tight shirt held up by thin straps, and a pair of panties. It's more than I can take. I kiss her, as I've wanted to do since she met me at the airport, and she melts against me, pouring two months of pent-up emotion into the embrace.

"I'm fine," I tell her when we break for air.

She pulls me into the apartment and shuts the door. "How's the investigation coming?"

"Ducky's doing the autopsy. Gonna need you in a few hours, but we won't have anything until then."

"Need me now?" she asks playfully.

Despite everything, I have to laugh. "Do I even have to answer that?"

In response she releases me, heading through her apartment toward the bedroom, pulling her shirt up over her head on the way and letting it drop to the ground. When she turns back to look at me expectantly, I forget my fatigue in an instant, pulling her onto the mattress and rediscovering what every inch of her body feels like under my hands, how she grabs the gothic, wrought-iron slats of her headboard to restrain herself as I settle myself between her legs. Her gasps turn to moans, and her moans to cries when the pleasure grows almost too much for her.

And when I push inside her, feel her hips rock up to take me in deeper, I forget everything – where I am, why I'm here, everything that happened four months ago. There's only Abby, and nothing else matters.

When I wake, the faint blue light of pre-dawn is struggling through the drapes, and my cell's piercing ring splits the silence. Abby groans and buries her head under her pillow, and I run a hand over the smooth skin of her back as I answer the call. "Yeah. Gibbs."

"Good morning." Ziva's words are cautious.

"It's…" I glance over at the clock on the nightstand and sigh. "Five a.m., Ziva. I know you wanna keep going on this thing, but until the FBI brief Jenny on the forensics they recovered from the cabin, our hands are tied."

"I know," she says. "I just… was checking you hadn't run into any trouble. Since you didn't come back here last night."

The curiosity in her voice is unmistakeable, and I know she's realised I've been sleeping elsewhere. Where she thinks that is, I don't know. Probably Jenny's. They've been friends a long time, and I'm not naïve enough to think they've never discussed Jen's past relationship with me.

I let her assume, and tell her, "As soon as I have something we can work with, I'll call you. Okay?"

"Right. I will let you rest."

I hang up, and Abby curls up closer to me, her eyes still closed. "She okay?"

"Mmm-hmm. She's just restless."

"Me too," Abby murmurs. "I need more rest."

It's unusual to see her so sleepy. Most of the time she's so buzzed on caffeine – and lately, sugar – that she's at the opposite end of the spectrum. It makes me wonder if she's coming down with something. "Rest? You? You feeling okay?"

She opens her eyes, gazes at me. "Never better. I'm just comfy."

As if to spite her, her cell rings. Sighing, she grabs it and checks the caller ID before answering. "Tony, have you been up all night?"

I can't hear his response, but it's enough to snap her alert. "Why 0600? Briefings usually wait until office hours, don't they?" She listens, then smiles, sitting up. "Don't you think that's a little paranoid? … Okay, okay. I'll be right there. Want me to let Gibbs know? … Will do. Bye."

When she hangs up, she kicks off the bedcovers and gets out of bed. "Sacks has scheduled a forensics briefing in an hour. Tony thinks it's so early just to piss him off."

Knowing Sacks, he's probably right. Looks like it's time to go back to work.

_

* * *

_

Resume canon episode events...


	11. Resolve

**Author's Note**: Thank you, everyone! I've been a little down lately cause my family's just had some bad news, but you've really cheered me up. Love you all. This takes place at the end of _Shalom_. Aaaand you're all gonna hate me. XD

* * *

Ziva and Tony head up to Jen's office to fill her in on the events of the day, and the real perpetrators of the bombing. I could go with them, take my share of the credit – as if I ever gave a damn about that – but instead I tell them to go ahead and get started. Tony lopes up the stairs without a thought, but Ziva stays a second, knowing I don't plan to stick around.

"Thank you," she says simply.

I nod in response, letting the thought hang between us: she's called in her favour, and now we're even. She smiles a little, nods back and starts up the steps after Tony.

As if on cue, my cell rings. "Yeah. Gibbs."

"Heard you caught the bad guys. Or girl, in this case." It's Abby, and she clearly doesn't know whether to be elated or upset.

"Are you in your lab?" I ask her.

"I'm at your house," she replies matter-of-factly, as if it's a perfectly logical place for her to be at eleven-thirty in the morning on a workday.

I begin to head out of the building. "Why?"

"Because I wanted to catch you before you left."

"You thought I'd leave without saying goodbye?" I ask sceptically. To anyone else here, I would. But not to Abbs.

"Well, not exactly. But I didn't wanna risk it," she admits. "And I knew you'd have to drop your car off back here."

"I'll be there in twenty minutes," I tell her, and hang up.

I drive the familiar roads back to my place, and Abby meets me on my doorstep with an anxious smile. For a second my mind flashes up a picture of this being an everyday occurrence, of arriving back home every day to find her waiting for me. I discount the thought almost immediately, reluctant to even entertain it in case it takes root in my mind and refuses to leave.

I fold my arms around her, and she murmurs, "You're leaving, aren't you?"

"You knew I would be," I remind her gently.

"Does it have to be today?" Her face is still buried in my neck, her words muffled against my skin.

"Yeah." It doesn't; there's no deadline but the one I set myself. But I don't think I can stay here much longer.

"_When_ today?" she whispers.

The feel of her body against mine tantalises me, but through the silent house I can almost hear Shannon's laughter, Kelly's singing. In Mexico I could forget. Here, it's going to take more than four months. How much more, I don't know.

I pull away from her gently, stroking a finger down her cheek. "Now, Abbs."

She nods, blinking rapidly and swallowing back tears. Past her sorrow and disappointment, I glimpse a tinge of bitterness, and it chills me to my core. I've had enough ex-wives over the years to know I'm losing her. It won't be now; maybe not even the next time I see her. But soon. And maybe it's for the best.

"I'll drive you to the airport," she says, squaring her shoulders against the emotions that want to claim her. And I do the same, kissing her forehead and walking with her to the hearse.

Abby waits while I check in, confirming my seat on the flight that leaves in an hour. When I rejoin her, she takes a deep breath. "This feels kinda like _déjà vu_."

"Abby…" I trail off, unsure what I can say.

She kisses me, slowly, sadly, her hands coming up to rest on my face. The airport's crowded, and I'm not given to public displays of affection, but right now I just don't care. I deepen the kiss, letting her feel the hunger, the longing, the apology I need to convey to her.

She breaks off first, with a tiny gasp of breathless loss. "Take care, Gibbs," she whispers, and she's gone before I realise she intends to walk away.

I head for the customs gate, not knowing what else to do. When I clear the checkpoint, I call her cell. She doesn't pick up. And sitting there, waiting for my flight to begin boarding, I know what I have to do.

* * *

"So lemme get this straight. You get a mystery phone call, fly up to DC without so much as a by-your-leave, and now you're selling your damn house?"

"That's about the long and short of it," I agree, looking over the list of real estate names I've been compiling.

"You sure about this, Probie?" Mike asks. "This life suits me just fine, but you? Thought you'd have gotten bored of retirement by now."

I'm _not_ sure about it, but I need to start severing ties to DC. I need to do something to take my mind off the expression on Abby's face when I told her I was leaving again.

"This about your girl? You two have a fight?"

I remember her enthusiastic hug in the airport, her body curled up against mine in her bed, the kiss she gave me before she tore herself from my grip. "We didn't fight."

"Then what?"

"Every time I go back there I'll give her false hope," I tell him. The words don't do justice the bitter disappointment that I could see in her face, so I don't even try to elaborate. "It's not fair to her."

"Fair to her, or fair to you?" Mike asks, and raises a hand in surrender when I only stare at him, immeasurably pissed off. "Okay, okay. I'll keep out of it. But I hope you know what you're doing, Probie."

I tuck the list of DC real estate agents into my shirt pocket and glance at my watch. It's late. First thing tomorrow, I'll start looking into this.

* * *

When I call Abby the day before I'm due to fly to DC to clear out my house, I consider telling her I'll be in town. Almost immediately, I discount it. I miss her like I never missed Stephanie or Diane, and even when I'm talking to her long-distance, my resolve crumbles.

I need to get this done, first. Once I've sold my place, made all the arrangements and have no reason to go back, I'll let her know.

I dial her cell, and she picks up after a couple of rings. "Hello?" There's the usual cacophony of music in the background, and my first thought is that she's out in a club.

"Hey, Abbs."

Instantly, the noise is muted. "Gibbs!" She sounds indescribably overjoyed. It's been over a month since I bailed Ziva out, and over the course of our weekly phone calls she's bounced back from subdued to her usual cheerful self.

"You free to talk?"

"_I_… am at work. Staring at the screen, waiting for a DNA match that's gonna be another three hours and fending off Tony. I swear, sometimes he's worse than you for expecting scientific miracles."

I settle in to talk to her, a wave of guilt hitting me as I realise this is the last conversation I'll have with her before she turns against me completely.

**

* * *

**

Don't worry... I'm too much of a Gabby shipper to let their relationship crash and burn. But it'd be boring if it was happy all the time, right? XD


	12. Temporary

**Author's Note**: Okay, now we're heading into _Escaped_ territory. Which incidentally is in my top three favourite episodes... Gotta love that handcuff scene! ;) Anyway. Hope you like... And thank you everyone for your support.

* * *

I watch Tobias disappear up the basement stairs to rejoin the real estate agent, then gaze down at Kelly's _Strawberry Shortcake_ doll. If it'd just been a question of Derrick Paulson's escape, I'd have left without a second thought, but Emily's the same age now that Kelly was when…

Reluctantly, I set off for the Navy Yard. Looks like my plans to stay off the radar have been shot to hell.

* * *

_Note: Episode events follow... Gibbs going to see Jen to ask for reinstatement, heading through the bullpen, surprising Tony, Ziva and McGee... and down to Abby's lab. Insert squeeworthy scene here. XD_

* * *

My badge and gun feel odd, back in their old places at my hip. As I head out of the elevator and into Abby's domain, the blinking red light on the surveillance camera catches my eye. Tony, Ziva and McGee are watching; of course they are. They were my agents, and I trained them to be curious.

Abby's sitting amidst piles of paperwork, engrossed in some sort of file. Behind her, her computers have gone to screensaver mode, and a picture of me shines out from them all. I don't know whether to be touched or mortified by that. She chews absent-mindedly on a skull-shaped lollipop as she reads. It's been a while since I saw her in her lab coat, and I can't help but smile.

"Any good?"

"Yeah," she answers distractedly, removing the lollipop from her mouth so she can speak. "It's a juryless appeal from some escaped convict. The guy really knows his forensics…"

Realisation dawns slowly, and her eyes widen as she gazes up at me. Then she surges up out of her chair, flinging her arms around me with such force that I sway back. "I knew it! I _knew_ it!"

Almost crushed by her embrace, I briefly lose sight of the reason I originally came back to DC. All that matters is her gunpowder scent, her husky voice.

And then she pulls back from me, leaning over to tap the keyboards of each computer in turn. The pictures of me disappear as she announces, "Won't need these any more, now that you're actually here!"

I see her eyes flicker up to the security camera, and she makes the same connection I did; that there are eyes on us. It doesn't deter her from hugging me again. "I knew you'd come back!"

"I'm not back," I tell her softly, hating myself for it.

Though I can't see her face, I can tell she's not convinced. "Of course you're back, I can feel your badge." Her eyes sparkle as she looks me over. "That is your badge, right?"

Trying not to laugh, I pull the badge from its resting place and hold it up in front of her, reminding her with a glance that we have an audience. It only makes her more enthused. "_You_ are back."

Carefully, I slip the lollipop back into her mouth. "Reinstatement's only temporary, Abbs." I don't want to crush her feelings, but I can't lie to her. "Until I can find Paulson."

Her face falls, and she stares at me, stricken, frozen in place by disillusionment. Then she deposits her lollipop back in its beaker, frowning. "We'll see about that." Tapping her keyboard again, she throws the pictures of me back up on the screens, before sitting back down to her report, chin in her hands. "So what can I do for you, Temporarily Reinstated Agent Gibbs?"

The sarcasm in her voice stings me, but I shove aside the emotion. "Process the contents of Paulson's cell."

"What am I looking for?" She won't look at me, staring fixedly ahead as she answers her own question. "Oh, right. _Anything_ to help you find him."

It would be too easy to pick a fight with her. I bite down on my irritation with difficulty. "I wanna know what he was up to before he escaped. Unless the three of you have any other suggestions?"

I turn my attention to the security camera, taking things out on the observers in the bullpen instead of my girl.

There's a long silence before Tony's voice emerges, a little sheepish. "Hey! We were just…" He already knows there's nothing he can do to explain it away. I wait him out as he admits, "…eavesdropping like little girls. But we do have suggestions."

Ziva chips in, "Prison records show that only one person came to visit Paulson in jail."

"Micky Stokes, seventy-two, former Navy sailor." That's McGee.

"And since Paulson has no family, we should assume he'll try to contact Micky," Ziva continues.

"And I already have an address," Tony finishes.

My mind working overtime, trying to filter the relevant information from the irrelevant, I look back at Abby. She's still staring at nothing, hurt by my repeated dashing of her hopes.

I begin to issue orders without even thinking about whether it's my place to, falling back into the role of lead investigator instinctively. It's only when I realise I've cut across Tony that I check myself.

The red light that indicates the bullpen's connection to the lab feed blinks off, and stays off. They're preparing to move out. And I rest a hand on Abby's shoulder, hoping to coax her out of her morose mood before I leave. She shrugs me off, picking up the report she's been going through and crossing the room to her computers.

"Have fun undermining Tony's authority," she tells me, and I take the hint, leaving her lab without a backward glance.

* * *

_Note: Gibbs heads out with Tony and Ziva to Mickey's place - Paulson steals their car and with it the notes on his trial. He uses them to stage a reconstruction, forcing Gibbs and Fornell to reopen his case. They head back to the Navy Yard, and this is where I'm picking up._

* * *

When we get back from Paulson's staged crime scene reconstruction I make straight for Abby's lab, needing to mend bridges. She glances up from some paperwork, surprising me by smiling a little. She never could hold a grudge for long.

"How's it going?" she asks.

"Eventfully," I say dryly, kissing the top of her head as I look over her shoulder. "What're you looking at?"

"Science stuff. It's not case-related; I was taking a break."

Amused, I shake my head. "You took a break from forensics to look at some different forensics?" Same old Abby.

"I geek, therefore I am." Snapping her folder shut, she stands up, gazing into my face. "So what's up?"

"Wanted to check you're okay."

At my mention of her earlier mood, her smile dims a little. "Yeah, sorry about that. For a moment I thought… and I… y'know."

"Didn't mean to get your hopes up, Abbs," I say. It's as close to an apology as I get, and she knows it, inclining her head in acknowledgement.

She shrugs, kisses my cheek and moves past me into her outer lab. "So where are you sleeping tonight?"

I follow her, watching her take bottles and glassware from one of her storage units and set them on her workbench. "Apparently my place has termites. The fumigators are in, so that's out of the question. Tobias said I could stay with him…"

Abby looks up, surprised. "Gonna take him up on it?"

"No."

At the word, she grins and turns back to her supplies. Then she sighs, holding aloft an empty bottle. "I'm out. Feel like escorting me to the supply closet?"

Chuckling, I start for the elevator. Most of the forensic supplies are on this floor, but certain chemicals are in a closet off the corridor that leads to the morgue, a fact that she's always complaining about. She catches up to me, and we wait for the elevator to arrive in anticipatory silence.

We step inside; the doors shut and I hit the emergency stop button, halting us between floors. Abby steps into my arms immediately, her lips finding mine without hesitation. Despite how much I want her, how much her inner frustration is bubbling under a thin veneer of self-control, we keep the kiss slow, knowing that if we give in to what we want, the case will never get solved.

"Sure you don't wanna stay at Fornell's place tonight?" She breathes the words against my skin, and I don't bother to dignify the comment with an answer, starting the elevator again after a final lingering embrace.

"I'll come by your lab when I finish up for the day."

She heads for her supply cabinet, and I visit Ducky. The day goes on, and I force myself to concentrate on the case.


	13. Handcuffs

**Author's Note**: You know me… if something gets in the way of my shipping, I pretend it doesn't exist. Which explains the distinct lack of Hollis Mann in my season-four-based fics. XD Anyway, so in the episode Gibbs spends the night at Fornell's, sleeping in Emily's room. But as if Gibbs would turn down a chance to sleep with Abby… I mean, sleep AT Abby's. Yeah. That's what I meant. ;)

* * *

True to my word, I stop by Abby's at nine, and together we escort Mickey Stokes off the premises, promising to send a car for him in the morning so he can resume his defence of Derrick Paulson. On the drive to her apartment, I look at her askance. "So when's your date with Mickey?"

She laughs. "Jealous?"

"Well, yeah," I tell her. "No one touches my girl but me."

I don't feel threatened, and she knows it. "There go my plans for the weekend," she teases.

When we get to her place, she makes coffee and curls up with me on the couch, head resting on my shoulder. "So is it as bad as you thought?" she asks softly.

"What?"

"Being back. Working a case."

It's not – though I'd never admit it to her, part of me has relished the challenge. There's only so much roof fixing one man can do before he gets bored. "Could be worse, I guess."

Abby eyes me sceptically. "Then why are you so depressed?"

"I'm not."

She sits up to look at me. "Oh, come on. I'm well on my way to a Ph.D in Gibbs Studies by now. Tell me."

"Don't wanna talk about it, Abbs." I give her the look that's guaranteed to make her back off. With a hurt sigh, she nods and stares into her coffee mug.

I never could stand to see her unhappy. Gently, I run my fingers through one of her pigtails. "Hey."

I can read her like a book. For a brief moment she considers ignoring me, but then her shoulders drop and she looks up at me ruefully. "I know," she says, sparing me the explanation. "You're really uptight and don't like to talk about your feelings out of some warped sense of machismo."

"Something like that," I agree, and she rolls her eyes, amused despite herself.

"At least you admit it." She snuggles against me again. "If you by some miracle change your mind and do want to talk, I'll be here."

_When Leroy Jethro Gibbs makes up his mind, his mind's made up…_ Ducky's pointed words echo through my mind, and I push them away, irritated – though whether it's at him or at myself, I have no idea. All I do know is that I've never felt so guilty in my life.

We talk about the case for a while, remembering similar aspects of other investigations, trying to puzzle our way to a solution. When we exhaust that topic of conversation, no closer to understanding Paulson's motives than we were before we started, we sit in comfortable silence for a few moments before Abby tilts up her head and kisses me.

"You know, seeing you back in the driver's seat, giving orders all day? That was totally, unbelievably hot."

I pull her onto my lap, unable to resist the playful look she's giving me. "Angling for something, Abbs?"

"Hell, yes, Special Agent Gibbs!" she drawls, and brings her lips down on mine again with a heat I've craved for the past month.

It's not until I've stripped her down to her underwear that I notice her new tattoo. It sits between her navel and her left hipbone, a simple outline of a bottle marked with the universally recognised symbol for poison. With her scientific background, it's perfect for her, and I run my fingers over it gently, not missing the way she shivers in response.

"New tatt?"

"Mmm-hmm… like it?"

I manoeuvre her down onto the couch, stretching her out so that I can kiss my way down her body to the newest spot of inked flesh. She stretches like a cat, smiling, and whispers, "I'll take that as a yes."

Throughout the rest of the night, I show her exactly how much.

_

* * *

_

Note: So they continue the case in the morning, and we're back to canon. Russell Nash turns up dead and the general theory is that Paulson used Nash to get at the bank robbery cash, and that he was guilty all along. Tony says that maybe they're missing something, to which Gibbs' reply is…

* * *

"The only thing _I_ am missing right now is happy hour at Carlos' Cantina."

Immeasurably frustrated, I head for the elevator, needing to be away from the rest of the team. When the doors open to admit me, I hit the button for the fourth floor without thinking, my first instinct to go up to Jenny's office, hand in my badge and gun, and get gone.

But although the evidence seems to point in the direction of Paulson's guilt, something seems wrong.

Do I even care?

Slamming my hand down on the emergency stop switch, I spend long moments staring into the gloom. Do I care? I wish I didn't, but I can't lie to myself. Whether it's morals or just plain mulish obstinacy, something inside won't allow me to walk away.

And there's only one person I need to see right now.

Setting the elevator moving again, I change its course. Hitting the button for Abby's lab, I breathe her name, hoping like hell that she can tell me something I've missed.

Even from the hallway outside her lab, I can hear her frantic voice. "You are security, right? Don't let Gibbs leave the building!"

I head through the door as she snaps into the phone, "I already told you why, Tom!" She turns and sees me, and the relief on her face is almost comical. "Never mind, false alarm," she says quickly, and drops the phone, running across the lab to throw her arms around me. "Gibbs! Thank god! I was so sure you'd be halfway to Mexico by now!"

I return the hug, and she inexplicably grabs my wrist. By the time I register that the metallic clicks and cool metal against my skin are the results of Abby handcuffing me to her, it's too late. "Sorry. You're a flight risk," she says, ducking under our joined arms to check her computer.

"_Abby_!" I protest, torn between irritation and fascination. I've considered handcuffing her before, and I know she'd greet the idea with a lascivious grin and an invitation to the nearest private space, but right now I can't be distracted.

"We're gonna figure out this case, Gibbs, we always do!" she tells me, still not over her terror that I might have left without saying goodbye. When she looks up at me, she catches my train of thought, and the corners of her mouth begin to turn up suggestively.

To her credit, she stays on topic. "You already figured it out," she guesses.

"No," I tell her, "but you're going to. I wanna know how Paulson knows."

"Knows… what?" she asks, slow to catch my drift, her mind obviously still dwelling on other things.

"Everything. Everything that we seem to."

Abby's smile grows into a full-on grin, and she throws her arms around me again, the action dragging my cuffed wrist over my shoulder. I can't help but grunt with the pain, and she releases me in a hurry, remorseful. "Oops, sorry!"

"Gonna let me out of these?" I ask, holding up my hand.

Her eyes dance mischeviously. "Nope."

I can't help but laugh. "You're gonna drag me around your lab all day?"

Abby heads into her office, and I have no choice but to follow. Sitting in her desk chair, she pats the corner of her desk. "Sit. Let's think about this again, from the start."

With a sigh that's more pissed off than I actually feel, I sit with her. She links the fingers of her cuffed hand through mine, and starts talking. "So Paulson escapes."

"Goes to Mickey Stokes," I continue.

"Then _you_ go to see Mickey and Paulson steals your car."

"He takes his case notes… wait. I'm thinking bug." She sits forward excitedly. "It's gotta be, right?"

It does seem the most plausible explanation… but Paulson's had no opportunity to bug anything in the building. "What could he have bugged? Not the car – we haven't made any major breakthroughs there."

"What was in the car?"

I think for a moment, and when it hits me I can't believe I've overlooked it for so long. "DiNozzo's Dictaphone."

She stares at me, wide-eyed. "Oh my god, you're so right! He could be listening to Tony, mid-campfire, right now!"

"Let me out of these," I say again, holding up my cuffed wrist.

Abby rummages in her bag for the key. "You know, we should try these in bed," she tells me, looking up at me through her lashes as she fits the tiny piece of metal into the lock.

"Thought had crossed my mind," I reply as the catch releases, and I lean in to kiss her cheek. "Thanks, Abbs."

"Totally," she calls after me cheerfully, as I disappear into the hallway.

**

* * *

**

And FYI?

**I think the handcuff scene is pretty much my favourite Gabby scene. Ever. And it's impossible to convey its hotness in words, I've failed horribly here! It's all in the body language… I'm gonna go drool in a corner now!**


	14. Breakdown

**Author's Note**: Thanks, guys - you rock! I'm still internetless so again I'm really sorry that I'm finding it hard to respond to reviews, but it's really, really appreciated. I'm working on a new Gabby fic too, I'm so excited about it. Anyway. This takes place right at the end of _Escaped_, after the team arrest Mickey Stokes. Aaand hello to the angst! Maybe I overdid it. XD

* * *

I'm heading down into my basement when my cell rings. I don't need to check my caller ID to know it's Abby. "Hey, Abbs."

"Where are you?" she asks. "Tony and everyone came back here with the bad guy, but they said you took off."

"I'm at my place," I tell her, steeling myself for the confrontation to come. I can't put it off any longer.

"Can I come over?"

"Sure. Door's open."

"You know, one of these days you're gonna get robbed," she points out. "I'll be there in twenty."

I pour myself a drink and wait for her, going over every inch of my boat, checking the joints to keep my mind occupied. When footsteps begin to hesitantly descend the basement stairs, I look up.

Abby halts halfway down, leaning back against the wall and levelling an accusing stare at me, tears in her eyes. "You're leaving for good, then, huh?" she says quietly. "When exactly were you gonna tell me, Gibbs?"

I remember the real estate sign outside my house, and curse inwardly at my lack of foresight. Not the way I wanted her to find out. "Abbs-"

Her anger ignites at my use of her name, and she runs down the remaining steps, coming to a stop a few feet away from me. "Don't you dare 'Abbs' me, Gibbs! I don't… I can't…" The fight drains out of her, and she brushes a tear from her cheek. "Why?" she whispers brokenly.

"The last thing I wanted was to hurt you. But every time I come back it gives you false hope. I can't keep doing this to you, Abby. It's not fair."

"Not _fair_?!" she explodes incredulously. "You're leaving my life forever, and you wanna talk about _fair_?"

As suddenly as her outburst begins, she reigns it in, becoming perfectly still as she absorbs the situation. There's nothing I can say that won't sound hollow; all I can do is wait.

Then she swallows her tears and squares up to me resolutely. "Do what you have to do, Gibbs," she says, her voice low and even. "But stop lying to yourself. This isn't about me. This is you doing penance for things beyond your control. You couldn't help your amnesia when you came out of that coma. A bunch of people higher up than we'll ever be made the decision to let that boat blow, and that's on them, not you."

I take a breath to argue, but she holds up a hand, shaking her head. "Shut up, Gibbs! Someone has to say this, and you might hate me for it, but since this is the last time you're ever gonna see me, I guess that's okay, huh?"

I hold my tongue, letting her unload. But when she speaks again, her tone is soft. "And Shannon and Kelly?"

It's the first time I've heard her say their names, and hearing her speak with sensitivity about them in the midst of all her pain hurts me more than I can ever describe. "I know you loved them. More than anything; I know that. But you didn't kill them. And if you hadn't been deployed overseas at the time they died, maybe you would have died along with them in that car. It wasn't your fault. None of it was. And until you accept that, you're just gonna keep wrecking everything that makes you happy."

She turns to leave, and I grab her wrist, torn between anger at her accusations and sadness that we have to leave it this way. Pulling her back toward me, I grab her shoulders, letting her see everything I'm feeling, unable to speak for fear of saying something I'll regret.

She nods as if confirming something, her face raw with pain, and stands on tiptoe to brush her lips against mine. When she begins to draw back, I follow, kissing her again as though her touch can mend everything that's broken in my soul. For long, desperate moments she clings to me, trembling with emotion, her lips warm against mine. Then she tears free of my grip, stepping out of my reach.

"Do me a favour, Gibbs. Next time you're in DC, don't look me up. You're right – I can't take this." With that, she's gone without a backward glance, up the stairs and out of sight.

I stand in the dimly-lit basement for god knows how long, staring at nothing, her loss a gaping tear in my existence. After a while, I head up the stairs, through the darkened house, to the window that looks out on the street.

Abby's hearse is still parked outside, and she's slumped over the wheel, her shoulders shaking with the force of her sobs. I want to go to her, but I know she needs space right now. Instead, I have to content myself with watching her slowly calm down, composing herself enough to start the hearse's engine and pull away from the curb.

* * *

For almost an hour I sit in the basement, lost in thought. As much as I want to get angry at Abby's accusations, to blame her, to lose myself in a bottle for the rest of the night, I know I can't. My mind keeps circling back to one pointed comment made by an old friend: _When Leroy Jethro Gibbs makes up his mind, his mind's made up_.

He's right. Even without what's happening with Abby, this past case is enough to make me dwell on Ducky's words. I was so blindly sure of Paulson's guilt that it took him reopening his own case and threatening a kid to make me reconsider. When I throw Abby's argument into the equation, my mind just becomes a confused turmoil.

One thing stands out, though. I always took for granted that I'd have Abby's friendship, if not her love. Now that relationship is in jeopardy, I have to face the facts.

She keeps me sane, keeps me from falling into a black pit of despair when things seem insurmountable. Whenever I hit a dead end with a case, or an anniversary of a failed marriage rolls around, I always gravitate toward Abby. Even now, when she's the reason I feel so despondent, my instinct is to head into her lab to hear her cheerful, caffeine-fuelled babble.

I need her, but I'm running away from her. And none of the justifications I've been giving myself seem logical any more.

Light footsteps sound above me, too light to be made by Abby's steel toe-capped boots. I wait, knowing exactly who's about to descend the stairs, schooling my expression into blankness.

Jenny takes the stairs slowly, seeming unsurprised to see me sitting in my basement, staring at the shell of my unfinished boat. I don't bother with a greeting, and neither does she. "I just came by to tell you that Derrick Paulson was cleared of all charges. You saved that boy's life."

At least something good came out of this. "He did most of the work."

"Don't sell yourself short," she tells me, fixing me with a pointed look. "Or is it too late for that?"

I've known her too long to let her start pushing my buttons now. Giving her nothing to work with, I just look at her. "Is this supposed to be some sort of pep talk to get me to stay, Jen?"

She gives a wry smile, stopping short of shrugging her shoulders. And suddenly I feel too weary to keep playing her game. "You don't want me back."

She senses it, and cuts her Director bullshit. "No, I don't."

"Worried you won't be able to handle me, Director?" I drawl, adding the title mainly to piss her off.

To her credit, she doesn't twitch. "No, Jethro. I'm afraid you won't be able to handle yourself. You've already been in two comas. You might not come out of a third."

With a sigh, she eyes me shrewdly. "The fact is, you're good. The best. When you're as good at something as you are, when you can make a difference like you can, you just don't quit."

That's all she has to say, and she wastes no more time with a goodbye than she did with a hello. I let her get to the top of the stairs before I stop her with a single word, not even having to think about it. My mind was made up before she even started her spiel. "Wait."

Jenny turns, amused. "Your old job, your old team. Exactly as you left it."

"DiNozzo's gonna love that," I point out.

"Leave Tony to me," she says, with a smile that's almost secretive. Once upon a time I'd have been jealous, but although the spark between us will always be there, I know she's not the same woman I fell for years ago. We've both changed too much for us to make it work, and in the year that's passed since she became Director, I've realised that.

And the only thing I'm thinking about right now is breaking the news to Abby. After the way she left I have no idea how she'll take it, but heading back down to Mexico knowing she never wants to hear from me again is more painful than staying here in DC.


	15. Apology

**Author's Note**: Whoo hoo! Final chapter... I can't believe I'm done! Hope it meets everyone's approval. :) And I gotta say right now: thank you so, so much for all your support while I was writing this, guys. You're an inspiration. And yeah, I'm a total sap. XD

* * *

I arrive at the lights halfway between my place and Abby's just in time to notice a hearse making the turn toward the Navy Yard. At eleven at night it can only be Abby, and I follow at a distance, letting her disappear inside the building before I leave my car. She doesn't notice me.

Part of me is surprised that she'd come into work when she's so upset, but she always did like to keep busy when something's bothering her. Right now my brain tells me she needs some time away from me, but my gut overrides it.

Making my way through the building, I take the stairs down to her lab rather than the elevator, stopping in the doorway to her domain. Abby's laid out lab equipment in neat rows on her workbench, and now she's rifling through her CD collection, her back to me.

She puts in a CD, more subdued than her usual taste and at a much quieter volume, and then turns to the evidence bag on the table. She's wearing no makeup, her expression is anguished, and I haven't seen her so despondent since Kate died. My instinct is to go to her, but remorse paralyses me for critical seconds, and the moment passes. She gloves up, then hesitates, biting her lip, and I can almost hear her tell herself to pull it together. Swallowing, she stands straight, breathing deeply and closing her eyes. "Okay," she whispers, and turns her attention to the evidence.

For a couple of minutes she works, taking a bag of white powder – probably cocaine or heroin – and setting small amounts in several test tubes. When she finishes, she stares down at the bag for long moments before her lips twist into an ironic smile.

"I was just thinking that when most people are having a bad day and come across some heroin, they don't usually run tests on it." Her voice startles me. I'm pretty well attuned to Abby, but I had no idea she knew I was there.

She drops the bag on the table and watches me defensively. "So what did you forget to tell me about why you're leaving me?"

I cross the distance between us, stopping short of pulling her into my arms as I long to do. "I'm not."

She doesn't catch my meaning, and turns back to her work, her jaw set with the anger she's covering the urge to cry with. "Come on, Gibbs! Surely there's something else you lied by omission to me about for over a month?"

"I'm staying," I say, keeping my expression as blank as I can make it. As much as I hate the fact, I'm afraid of what her response will be.

I don't know what she'd expected, but that wasn't it. Blinking at me in utter incomprehension, she whispers, "What?"

"I just had a visit from Jenny. She agreed to my permanent reinstatement."

For what seems like an eternity she freezes, absorbing my words, appearing unwilling to believe it. Then she shakes her head, beginning to pace the lab. "Okay. So say I was theoretically gonna jump up and down with joy, kiss you, wholeheartedly welcome you back into my life… would you turn around tomorrow and say, 'Hey, guess what? I'm going back to Mexico!'? Cause you gotta admit, so far it's kinda been a theme, and if it happens again I don't know if I can-"

I catch her arm, pulling her to a stop, and she gazes up at me, tears of fearful hope in her eyes. "Abbs…" I know it's gonna take more than just a hug to allay her doubts this time. "You were right. Everything you said; you were right. I'm sorry."

Her eyebrows shoot up. "Was that a bona fide Leroy Jethro Gibbs apology?"

"Don't get used to it," I warn her, answering her tentative smile with one of my own.

Although she relaxes, her anger waning, her reservations are still clear. I know she desperately wants to believe, but she holds herself in check, afraid of setting herself up for another fall.

When she speaks, my heart sinks.

"I don't…" She looks sick, as if she can't believe she's saying the words. "I need time to think."

I nod, unsurprised but still torn up inside. "I'm not going anywhere," I say, letting her hear the conviction beneath the words. "When you decide, you know where to find me."

"Okay," she whispers, and I'm unable to stop myself from kissing her cheekbone, the way I have for years. Reassured by the familiarity of the gesture, she leans into the touch for a moment before stepping away, back to her experiments.

* * *

It almost kills me to walk out of there, leaving things so open-ended, but I somehow manage it. My mind a blank, I drive home, pour myself a drink and begin to pull items out of boxes, depositing them back in their old places. The work distracts me from thoughts of Abby, and before I know it, it's two a.m. and the house is the way it was before I left for Mexico.

I shower the dust and grime I've accumulated away, and then head back down to the basement, unable to even think about sleeping. My eyes are drawn to the photograph on the workbench, of Abby and I in her lab – the photograph she left under my pillow at Mike's place. With a bittersweet smile, I pick it up, studying her body language, her expression, the myriad words left unsaid between us.

I was insane to even consider leaving her behind.

Footsteps interrupt my train of thought, and I turn to watch Abby dash down the basement steps, crossing the distance between us at a run. Without stopping to speak, she throws her arms around my neck in one of her trademark overenthusiastic hugs, and not for the first time today I find myself almost overbalanced.

And for the second time in less than twelve hours she has a handcuff around my wrist before I know what's happening.

"Oh my god, I can't believe I nearly lost you, what the hell was I thinking? I don't need time, I don't need to think, I just need you here, and you can't even think about going away again, I won't let you-"

I interrupt her tirade with a finger to her lips, letting myself relax for the first time in hours. Her eyes flick from mine down to my lips, and back again, and before I know what I'm doing I've pulled her into a kiss, deep and heated and intense. Abby gives a tiny cry of relief, pressing as close to me as she can, and my brain tries to fight its way back to clarity. When she pulls away she holds up her cuffed hand, bringing mine up with it and linking our fingers.

"Gonna let me out of these?" I ask softly, repeating the words I used earlier in the day. I already know the answer, and I couldn't want it more.

With a wicked smile, she tugs me toward her again. "Not for a while…"

END


End file.
